


My heart was wounded with his wounded heart

by HolRose



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angel Singing, Angel Wings, Angst, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale Sings, Aziraphale is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Sings (Good Omens), Crowley is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Crowley is probably depressed, Declarations Of Love, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Madam Tracy gives advice, Sad with a Happy Ending, Wing Grooming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-13
Updated: 2019-11-14
Packaged: 2021-01-29 23:07:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21418168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HolRose/pseuds/HolRose
Summary: ‘You always take the moral high ground, don’t you?’Crowley stood with his hands on his hips, his face impassive. Aziraphale flushed red and looked defensive.‘That is hardly fair, and anyway, you are only saying that because you’re a…’‘Oh, here we go! Not this again. I know damn well what I am, you don’t need to tell me, again. I don’t need this. I don’t need this from you…’Crowley was furious, his mouth a hard line. Aziraphale looked perturbed, wringing his hands in front of his body.‘Crowley, don’t be ridiculous, I…’‘No, enough, I’m out of here, Angel, gonna get my foul presence away from your sight. And don’t try to contact me, where I’m going I can’t be contacted,’ he grimaced and swung round to head for the door, ‘and believe me, I won’t be thinking about you while I am away.’
Relationships: Aziraphale & Madame Tracy (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Sergeant Shadwell/Madame Tracy (Good Omens)
Comments: 54
Kudos: 134
Collections: Ace omens akinmytua





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A story about how difficult it can be to be in love when you aren't used to it and how hard it is to have that first serious argument. This one means a lot to me. My headcanon is that Aziraphale and Crowley are ace in this one, there is kissing though because I am all about the kissing.  
I am relatively new to writing so all kudos and comments would be very warmly received.

They had stopped it, even after all the mistakes they had made. Through the strength of those in love and the pure courage of children, the ultimate disaster had been averted

Afterwards, a hiatus, a space in time suspended. In that lacuna, confessions, the spilling over of confidences, the hot whisper of declarations between lips close enough for kissing. Then the swap, the ultimate intimacy of taking on the beloved’s form. Each met the fate of the other, their love expressed in how they held themselves and spoke to their tormentors, their simulation a tribute to the other’s grace, courage and dignity.

The story had ended, they had found each other and survived. The story had just begun, they had survived and found each other.

***

At a bookshop in Soho, an angel and a demon were shouting at each other. The argument had come out of nowhere and was already redolent of old hurts and offences. Despite what they shared, they found themselves on a well-worn track, with predictable results.

‘You always take the moral high ground, don’t you?’

Crowley stood with his hands on his hips, his face impassive. Aziraphale flushed red and looked defensive.

‘That is hardly fair, and anyway, you are only saying that because you’re a…’

‘Oh, here we go! Not this again. I know damn well what I am, you don’t need to tell me, _again_. I don’t need this. I don’t need this from _you_…’

Crowley was furious, his mouth a hard line. Aziraphale looked perturbed, wringing his hands in front of his body.

‘Crowley, don’t be ridiculous, I…’

‘No, enough, I’m out of here, Angel, gonna get my foul presence away from your sight. And don’t try to contact me, where I’m going I can’t be contacted,’ he grimaced and swung round to head for the door, ‘and believe me, I won’t be thinking about you while I am away.’

‘You are an idiot Crowley, I don’t appreciate being misconstrued. Perhaps it is best if we do have some time apart.’

Aziraphale spoke coldly, refusing to look at his friend. He followed him to the door, pulling it open for him to leave, Crowley paused, turned round and looked at the angel for a long moment, then he spoke quietly.

‘Well…right…ehm…fine. Enjoy your solitude, Angel.’

He swung through the door and swaggered down the road, opening his car door with a snap of his fingers and taking his place at the wheel. The door closed slowly, the shop bell letting out its usual dull jangle. Aziraphale had turned away, not wishing to see the car leave.

***

Aziraphale walked into the back shop after the front door closed on Crowley. He felt numb. That had just blown up from nowhere. Why did Crowley have to be so endlessly _difficult_? Tea. The recourse of the British when anything went wrong, from minor inconveniences up to all-out global catastrophe. He stood in his tiny kitchen as the kettle rumbled into life, staring into the distance, seeing nothing. It took him time to work out how he felt about anything that happened to him, he was a creature of deliberation, needing to weigh up every element of a situation before he could formulate his emotional response to it. He poured the water on to the leaves in his white teapot, watching them uncurl in the boiling water for a moment before he placed the lid on the pot.

He had been annoyed. Crowley had crashed into the bookshop without any warning and had startled him while he was trying to repair an end paper on a particularly fragile volume. Glue and tissue had flown up into the air and he had spoken rather sharply to his friend. Aziraphale had no idea why Crowley had taken such offence to this particular spat. He had just been about to say that the demon was a clumsy oaf. It wasn’t that unusual for them to have this kind of verbal exchange so he was surprised when Crowley had frozen with that look on his face and then left after having said the things he had. It was all rather unnecessarily dramatic, he felt.

He drank his tea, enjoying its fragrant warmth and then reached for his phone, he would call Crowley and apologise, see if they could meet for lunch tomorrow. He called and was put through to that dratted voicemail. He hated voicemail and never used it, feeling foolish speaking to a machine. He tried again, and then several times more. It seemed that the demon had his phone turned off. So he really was offended. Well, he would just crack on with the work he had to do and leave Crowley to sulk. He would come round soon enough and then they could get things back to normal.

The next day, Aziraphale decided to keep the shop closed and set to work on a major reorganisation of the shelves that he had been planning for a while. Regular customers had worked-out the layout of the shop and were beginning to be able to find things, this was something he wanted to nip in the bud right away. He started pulling books off the shelves, placing them in piles while he ran through the order that he had in mind for them in his head. He worked all morning, trying to keep worries about Crowley out of his mind. At lunchtime, he tried calling his friend again. He didn’t like not knowing how he was and what he was doing. Concern about the demon had started niggling in his head and he wanted to assure himself that nothing was amiss. Checking up on each other had become customary between them since the announcement of Armageddon just over eleven years ago, the need to make sure the other was safe swiftly becoming an imperative for both of them. Aziraphale decided that if he had not heard from Crowley by the following day, he would go over to his flat and try to speak with him, waking him up if he absolutely had to. He continued with his reorganisation, but his enthusiasm was dwindling, and he found himself staring into space more and more often, thinking and worrying. That night, uncharacteristically, Aziraphale went to his bedroom and tried to sleep, unable to concentrate on any book that he picked up and feeling a sense of real despondency creeping over him. He couldn’t eat or sleep and was sad and lonely. It is truly the case that when one gives away one’s heart to another, they also take possession of one’s peace of mind and Aziraphale was finding this out now, deprived of the comfort that solitude had previously given him. In the small, dark hours of the morning, he found himself lying awake, wrapped in his duvet for comfort, thinking about Crowley and trying to work out what had happened.

How had it come to this? Aziraphale had thought that once they were able to be honest with each other about how they felt, everything after that would be easy. Perhaps that had been naive of him. It had all seemed so wonderfully simple that night when they had finally spoken of their feelings for one another. It was a fraught time, the night before their respective ordeals at the hands of their superiors. Yet what stood out for him now was the spark of joy that it had ignited in him, something that shone through all the fear and tension like the pole star. He had felt humbled by it, that this brave and beautiful creature was in love with him. They had spent a tense night in the Mayfair flat, Crowley with his head in Aziraphale’s lap while the angel stroked his hair, talking over their plan, scared and exhilarated. There had been tentative kisses, achingly tender, and promises of what they would be to each other if they were allowed to survive. Crowley had been reflective and grave, his habitual cynicism absent. Their honesty with each other had been almost painful, both with their habitual attitudes stripped away, leaving only love and the enduring connection that they had shared over thousands of years. It had been so good to be able to be open and to just love each other, after centuries of self-censorship, even knowing that they might only have that one night to be together.

And then they were free and everything had changed. They were out of a job and thrown together in their new situation. They spent a lot more time with one another, both needing to know where the other was at all times. After their respective ordeals in Heaven and Hell, there remained a residual fear that repercussions might still be forthcoming. Eventually, things had settled down and the situation became more normal, and this was when things became trickier. Although they had always depended on the knowledge that the other was there in the background, their previous lives had been very solitary. Both were largely accustomed to working on their own for most of the time, their occasional contact a welcome interlude each time circumstances allowed it.

The fact that their personalities complemented each other did not prevent them from occasionally getting on each other’s nerves now that they were spending much more time in each other’s company. Crowley could be infuriating; he was mercurial, easily bored and thought he was endlessly funny when he was, in fact, being provocative. Aziraphale knew that Crowley was often exasperated by his fussy ways and he was teased endlessly about some of the things he did routinely. A certain level of fond and amused bickering was integral to their relationship and had been so almost from the very beginning. Lately, though, things had become a little strained and the teasing had been characterised by an increasing edge. When this happened there was a tendency for both of them to revert to older habits, Crowley becoming bitter and sarcastic, Aziraphale retaliating by being self-righteous and waspish. Aziraphale was not proud of the fact that it had been habitual for him to mention the difference between them frequently over the years; an angel and a demon – hereditary enemies. It was his way of protecting himself from the very real fears he had concerning what might happen if their friendship became known to either of their respective sides. In the very early days, not long after their first meeting in Eden, he was frightened only for himself, but as he grew to know Crowley and to understand his nature, he had also become concerned to protect his only friend on Earth, his anxiety about the demon increasing as his love for him grew. It had become almost obsessive, that need to reiterate the differences between them, as if by doing so he could convince Heaven and Hell never to take them away from each other. He had not felt the need to refer to this since they had declared their love though, and had been pleased to give up that particular habit.

Aziraphale sat up in his bed. _That_ was what Crowley had thought he had been about to say, the kind of barbed remark that he would previously have uttered without thinking:

_I am an angel and you are a demon…_

_You are fallen…_

_We’re on opposite sides…_

_You’re a demon, that’s what you do…_

He put a hand to his mouth, horrified. Crowley had thought that he was about to refer to him again as one of the fallen, something that had clearly hurt him for years when Aziraphale had insisted on mentioning it time after time. That explained his reaction and need to get away:

_‘I know damn well what I am, you don’t need to tell me **again**…_ _I’m out of here, Angel, gonna get my foul presence away from your sight…’_

In truth, he had stopped thinking of Crowley as a demon thousands of years ago. He had seen the way in which he behaved on earth, trying to do as little harm as possible whilst submitting elaborately worded reports to his superiors in language that suggested he was cunningly thwarting the intentions of Heaven. The arrangement that they had worked out between them was instrumental in this, allowing them to work together to balance the effects of what they did so that the least evil befell the humans on this beautiful planet. At his worst, Crowley was mischievous and that mischief was generally directed at those who richly deserved to be on the receiving end of it. At his best, he hated injustice and protected the weak where he could, all the time arguing that his actions were stymieing the will of the Almighty.

To the angel, his friend was no longer The Demon Crowley but his dearest, his soulmate. It had taken a certain strength of mind to break away from the orthodox view of this particular one of the Fallen. Angels are not meant to have free will, they were created as perfect beings, made only to serve God. Free will, the right to make decisions for good or ill, was the prerogative of God’s creations, human beings. Angels were supposed to obey without thinking. This was antithetical to the Principality Aziraphale. He had always felt different, singled out, singular. He did not lack love for the Creator, but unlike his fellow angels he was not inclined to unquestioning obedience. Not enough to make him Fall, perhaps, but tending towards the notion that information must be evaluated before decisions might be made. His evaluation of Crowley had resulted in a turning away from the notion that all of the Fallen were intrinsically, properly evil in the traditional sense and his time on Earth had only served to exacerbate that belief. Aziraphale had loved Crowley for so long that he had become accustomed to that way of thinking, even while he continued to hide that love. But that was as much to protect Crowley as it was to save himself from divine wrath. Had the agents of Hell ever have learned of a demon fraternising with an angel, the penalty would most likely have been annihilation. Hell had no tolerance for dissent. Then the non-apocalypse had come along and everything had changed. It would appear that, for now at least, they were beneath the notice of their respective bureaucracies. Aziraphale had to put things right, he was endlessly ashamed of how he had previously spoken, he would go over there tomorrow, well, today now, and try to make amends.

***

As soon as it was a reasonable time to go visiting, Aziraphale left his flat above the bookshop and walked to his favourite florist to buy Crowley some flowers. He chose a large bouquet of red and white roses to apologise and ask for forgiveness. Traditionally, red roses stood for affection and fidelity, white for chastity, truth and silence. He hoped that the plant-loving demon would like them. There was no answer at the door of Crowley’s Mayfair flat. Feeling somewhat guilty, Aziraphale opened the door, waiving the wards that were present as he had been instructed to do a few weeks earlier. The flat was cold and he knew that there was no Crowley there as soon as he walked in to its gloomy hallway. The plants were lush and doing well, he inspected them for any problems and noted that the automatic watering system was working properly, pausing to whisper encouragement to them and tell them how splendid they were. He found a vase in the kitchen, filled it with water and added the flower food he had been given, arranging the roses in it and leaving them near the statue from the wartime church for Crowley to see if and when he came home. He left the flat, remaking the enchantments that protected it and walked slowly back to the bookshop. When he got there, he was incapable of doing anything but think. His thoughts spiralled: what would he do if Crowley never came back? He was capable of staying away, had done so in the past for decades. He didn’t think he could stand that now, not after everything that had happened. And the worst thing was that he deserved it, it was all his fault for behaving the way he had, no wonder Crowley didn’t trust him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale finds something to soothe his feelings and reflects on where his loyalties lie. He has an unexpected meeting and receives some advice. In some things, humans can be wiser than angels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You don't need to know any of the music mentioned, just that it is rather sad and very beautiful. All the composers mentioned are canonically ones that we know Aziraphale likes apart from Mahler and I don't believe for a moment that Aziraphale wouldn't have loved Mahler.

That night, Aziraphale got drunk. He missed Crowley horribly and felt that he was powerless to do anything about it. He was working his way steadily through a bottle of red wine when he decided that some music might help. Schubert, that was a good idea, he always found his music both comforting and uplifting.

Aziraphale never sang, he had been made with a good singing voice, as were all celestial beings, but singing in Heaven was reserved for praise of the Almighty. Had he ever sung whilst on Earth it would have been noticed and he would have been reprimanded immediately. That was unlikely to happen now and he didn’t care anyway. Let them reprimand him, what would it matter? He sat there, tipsily, listening to one of the sadder pieces in the song-cycle _Winterreise_. He started to join in softly with Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau singing about loneliness. It felt good to sing, so he raised his voice a little and followed the vocal lines of all of the songs in the remainder of the cycle. The music was tender and restrained and he felt his heart opening up to all the feelings he had tried to repress within himself for years.

More wine was required, so he opened a new bottle and put on another piece of music. Schubert had been nice, but he felt like something more lively. He tried some Beethoven, his only opera, _Fidelio_, and that was good, he felt his voice strengthen and grow more confident, the singing lifted his heart and in a strange way, gave him courage. He found himself standing up for some of the more rousing choruses, and before he knew it, his wings had manifested themselves. He felt emotional and liberated, singing along to this beautiful work, Beethoven’s heartfelt celebration of love, fidelity and courage. Once he was well through the third bottle, he was standing defiantly in the middle of the shop, singing his heart out up to the glass cupola through which he could faintly see the stars.

He sang up to the heaven that had stopped listening to what he had to say long ago, to a place that was supposedly built on love, yet where it had been decided without any form of trial that he was to be condemned to die. He sang to a place where grim-faced angels, his brothers, were happy to stand by and watch him be struck by a demon before they pushed him into a pillar of hell fire. And for what sins? For his disobedience, undoubtedly, his refusal to fight for them in their unholy war. But mainly for his love. Love was the characteristic that was supposed to define all angels, they were first and foremost beings of love. His love though, had been condemned as incorrect. That which defined him, that was most important to him had been rejected by his brethren. First, his love of God’s creation, his desire to spare the beautiful world and everything on it, humans, animals and birds, plants, the whole lot, from pain and ultimately, from destruction. This was what had always been the most difficult thing for him, the disparity between the ideal of love and what he saw in practice. Through the ages, this was what he had found himself questioning in his mind most often, the enactment of divine justice and, frequently, his place in the scheme of things. Such thoughts were not acceptable and were definitely not encouraged, so he didn’t speak of how he felt and steadfastly did his duty, whatever it cost him in grief and regret later. He was always aware, however, of the differences between himself and his angelic cohort and knew that they felt this too, hence their attitude. Then, of course, there was his love for Crowley, for that he was branded a renegade and traitor. This was unfair, he saw that now, there was nothing inherently wicked in loving a demon, even if his love for Crowley was a specific and particular feeling, apart from the general love he felt for all things. What he saw more clearly was the difference between the supposedly loving angels and his ‘enemy’ on earth. He had received more love and companionship from a demon than he had seen in Heaven for an age. There was no love there for him any longer.

When the music finished he continued to look up, dry eyed, at the stars

‘You were my brethren, we loved one another. What happened to you?’ he slurred, before losing his balance and sitting down abruptly. He looked down at his hands where they lay in his lap and noticed the ring, the gold angelic seal that he habitually wore on the smallest finger of his right hand, removed it and placed it, very deliberately, on the floor.

By this time, Aziraphale was exceedingly drunk. He staggered over to where he kept his music, humming to himself haphazardly. What should he have next? He was too sozzled for standing up and thought he should try something a little quieter. He was feeling melancholy now after his previous euphoria. Bach? Not Bach, too painful, he couldn’t cope with that at the moment. His eyes alighted on some Mahler, ah yes, one of his favourites, the _Kindertotenlieder_. He sat back and listened, singing along to the familiar words softly. The mournful beauty of the music overwhelmed him. These songs, speaking of the grief felt at the death of beloved children, reminded Aziraphale of Crowley, the children he loved and had always tried to help through the millennia. Sitting in his chair alone as the notes floated around him, his voice wavered and he wept.

_Now I see well, why with such dark flames in many glances you flash upon me_

_O eyes: as if in one look to draw all your strength together._

_I did not realise, because a mist surrounded me woven of tangled destinies_

_That your beam was already returning homewards to the place from which all rays emanate._

***

St James’ Park wasn’t at all the same without a companion to feed the ducks with. Various couples occupied the benches along the paths, some more sinister looking than others. The pelicans clattered about near the lake as usual and the ducks were as keen as ever to take the wheat grains that he offered them. He took the usual route of his customary strolls with Crowley and realised that coming here had been a bad idea, only serving to increase his misery. Aziraphale was walking home, arms held stiffly across his stomach, head bowed, when he heard a familiar voice behind him.

‘Cooee! Mr Aziraphale! Hello dear!’

He turned and saw a woman waving at him. He hardly recognised her at first. Smartly dressed in an understated way, she had her blonde hair in a long bob and her face was fresh and natural looking. She was smiling broadly and seemed extremely pleased to see him. It took him a couple of minutes but then he realised who she was.

‘Madam Tracy, my dear lady, how lovely to see you again.’

‘It’s Marjorie, Mr Aziraphale, now that I’ve retired.’

‘Ah, Marjorie, you are looking well, retirement must suit you.’ Aziraphale smiled politely.

‘You look tired Mr A. Do you fancy a cuppa? I was just about to stop for one myself and there’s a lovely little café just near here…’

Aziraphale wasn’t sure if he wanted to be sociable but he looked at the woman’s kind face and remembered how good she had been about his rather rude invasion of her person on the day of the failed apocalypse and relented. It would be nice to take his mind off his worry over Crowley and a cup of tea sounded like a good idea. He hadn’t eaten or drunk anything so far that day and in truth, he had a bit of a bad head after all the wine, even though he had banished most of the hangover with a minor miracle before he came out for his walk.

They walked into the café and sat down at a corner table.

‘What would you like Mr A? My treat.’

‘Oh, just a tea, thank you, Mada-, er Marjorie.’ He found it difficult to think of her as anything other than Madam Tracy.

Madam Tracy went to the counter and ordered two teas, returning with them balanced on a tray. She looked across at Aziraphale, he seemed sad and preoccupied and there were shadows under his kind blue eyes. She chattered away about the cottage that she and Shadwell were hoping to buy once she had sold her flat.

‘Ah yes, how is Mr Shadwell, is everything going well?’ Aziraphale had been delighted to learn that the events at Tadfield had brought this unlikely couple together and that Shadwell was retiring from witch finding and settling down.

‘Yes, Mr A, we’re fine. Mr S found it a bit unsettling at first, of course, us being together. He has a lot of _baggage_.’

‘I’m sorry, er, Marjorie, what does his luggage have to do with your affair of the heart?’ Aziraphale was puzzled.

Madam Tracy laughed, ‘Ooh, go on with you Mr A! Not luggage, _baggage_, _emotional_ baggage. It means the bad experiences people have had in their past that affect the way that they relate to people, emotionally. When you are a mature couple such as myself and Mr Shadwell, there are bound to be a few problems. Between you and me, Mr A, he didn’t have the best start in life.’ She leaned across the table and laid her hand on his arm, confidentially, lowering her voice, ‘he was a very unhappy little boy.’

Aziraphale was finding it quite hard to imagine that Shadwell had ever actually been a little boy, but he nodded and she continued.

‘His Mum neglected him, it was the _drink_ you know, then she left and his Dad, well, his Dad just couldn’t cope. So, they sent him away,’ she sat up and shook her head, ‘sent him away to one of those _awful_ homes. And he was bullied there, something terrible. He was a quiet boy, liked reading, and even then he had his _interests_, in the _occult_, you know, and they teased him for not liking football and for always having his nose in a book. He got roughed quite up a lot, poor mite.’

Suddenly Aziraphale found that he could imagine the young Shadwell, an undersized boy, lost and cowed, being pushed around by bigger boys who laughed at him and called him names. He experienced a rush of fellow feeling.

‘Poor man, I am sorry to hear that.’ He looked pained, and Madam Tracy continued.

‘Oh, bless you Mr A! The upshot is though, that he finds it difficult to express his feelings. He’s like a lot of people dear, his problem stems from a lack of self-worth. Because of what he has been through, he has low self-esteem and he doesn’t believe that he deserves to be loved. I have had my work cut out reassuring him that he does. Everyone deserves to be loved Mr A, without exception!’

She said the last part of her speech firmly and with conviction, nodding her head for emphasis. Aziraphale looked at her gravely, pondering her words.

‘You are so right, dear lady, everyone deserves to be…yes…absolutely…’

‘He doesn’t say much to me but I know he cares,’ she continued, ‘it’s the things he does, you see, that show me how he feels. He brings me a cup of tea in the morning, takes the bins out, has a go at mending things when they get broken and he brought me flowers once. That was lovely. It’s the little things that count, I feel very lucky.’

‘You are very wise Marjorie,’ Aziraphale regarded Madam Tracy across the table from him with a new respect, ‘as you say, it is the actions that one takes that really matter, being there for one another, rescuing one another, as one might say, from the vicissitudes of life, that is what is important, yes…’ he looked thoughtful for a moment and then remembered what he had originally been talking about ‘…ah, yes, but I am so pleased that you have found happiness together, that is splendid news.’

He smiled across at Madam Tracy with genuine pleasure. He liked her very much for her warmth and her obvious depth of compassion for her partner.

‘Oh, thank you Mr A, that is nice of you to say. How is Mr Crowley, by the way?’

Aziraphale’s smile switched off and he looked careworn again. His voice became crisper, with a colder edge than had been the case previously.

‘Mr Crowley is away at present, I shall pass on your good wishes when I am able to.’

‘Trouble in paradise, Mr A?’

‘In paradise? What do you mean?’ Aziraphale felt hugely wrong-footed and experienced a pang at the mention of paradise.

Madam Tracy looked across at him with concern on her face. She may have read rather too many self-help books, but she was also an instinctively kind woman and had spent many hours informally counselling a good number of her regular clients during her years as a working girl. What many of them needed more than personal discipline was a nice cup of tea and a friendly ear and she was always happy to oblige. She was big hearted, very open minded and gave excellent advice after years of experience in the field of human relationships of all kinds.

‘You and Mr Crowley. Remember, you were in my head for a good few hours that afternoon, Mr A. I felt a little bit of what you felt when you saw him again at that airfield. You could see how he felt too, the way he was looking at us, and his face when you got your body back, well…’

‘Ah, yes, I suppose you did, er, feel what I was, er, yes.’ Aziraphale blushed, and then spoke in a sad, quiet voice, ‘we had a row, and he, ah, left and I haven’t heard from him since…’

‘Oh you poor thing, that sounds rotten. Well, there’s only one thing you can do.’ Madam Tracy was sympathetic and Aziraphale felt slightly hopeful that she might be able to help.

‘What’s that?’ he asked

‘You must talk to him Mr A! Communication is so important between two people in love!’ She shook an admonishing finger in his direction, ‘Get round there and have a chat, find out what is wrong and clear the air, and then you can have all the fun of making up, that’s the best bit!’, she gave him a wicked smile, and patted him on the arm.

‘I don’t actually know where he is at the moment... .’ Aziraphale looked down at his teacup, his face glum.

‘Well, then, write to him, tell him how you feel that way. Getting a letter is really nice and I bet you would write a corker Mr A, what with your lovely turn of phrase and everything.’

‘That…might be a good idea, thank you.’

‘I had better get on, I have to pick up the invitation cards for the wedding. I’ve got your address so I shall just send you and Mr Crowley a joint invite, shall I? I hope we’ll see you there, it’s in April.’

They both got up and made their way out of the café and on to the street. Madam Tracy smiled and then, impulsively gave Aziraphale a hug, much to his surprise.

‘So lovely to see you Mr A. You take care and make sure you get things sorted out. You know where I am if you ever need a chat, you’re always welcome, and I know Mr Shadwell would love to see you and Mr Crowley. Don’t be a stranger now!’ She gave him a little finger wave and bustled off.

‘Thank you so much, most kind, lovely to see you.’

Aziraphale gave her a small wave back and set off to walk back to the bookshop, lost in thought. Meeting with Madam Tracy had been most fortuitous, she had given him much to think about. Shadwell and Madam Tracy weren’t the only people who might be described as a _mature couple_, and as for _baggage_, six thousand years was plenty of time to accrue a remarkable amount of that.

The first thing he did when he got back was to look up the number of the people who had supplied him with performing birds when he had done his disastrous magic act at Warlock’s birthday party, a few short months ago. Having contacted them, he sat down, took a sheet of writing paper from his drawer and sat in thought for a long time before beginning to write.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We find out what Crowley has been doing, how he finds solace and what he has been thinking about.

If you have loved someone for a long time, finding out that they return your love can be an existential shock like a bomb blast, smashing apart walls built over many years, the walls that keep you safe. Old habits die hard, they say. When one is habitually accustomed to suffering alone it can be nearly impossible to do anything else. Even when you know better, it is hard to open your heart, hard to speak about how you feel. Some wounds run deep, and it is rare to be able to understand in the heat of the moment exactly where the origin of pain lies. When things go wrong and this pain rears its head, it is so much easier to strike out at those who love you, to revert to the way you used to be because it is known and safe, to hug your pain to you and run away.

Crowley drove directly to the airport. He wanted to get away immediately and he knew exactly where he was going to go. Having spent so much time at the bookshop recently, he had installed a watering system for his plants so they would be fine for a few days while he was not at his flat. He left his car in the long-stay car park and went directly to departures, a seat on the next flight to Switzerland having miraculously just become available.

It would have surprised some people to know that when Crowley wanted to get away from the aspects of his life that troubled him, he would find somewhere remote in the mountains and climb as high as he could get. Although he enjoyed loafing about and was notorious for sleeping away periods of time when he was in the mood, he also relished physical exercise when it was something of his own choosing. When the pain of his life became too much for him, he climbed until his muscles burned and twitched with the exertion of it. He was strong with great stamina and could fly out of danger if he made a mistake, although he rarely did. Crowley had become a particularly proficient climber over the years, seeking out areas inaccessible to humans and making sure that he was never visible to anyone. He loved lying in the sunshine on the rocks at the top of his routes, complete exhaustion allowing him to stop thinking and just zone out for a while. Being high in the mountains brought him a sense of peace. He enjoyed looking at the beauty of the earth from a high vantage point, seeing all of its wonders and none of its faults, and while he was there he could forget who he was and what he had done for a while. Although he was not consciously aware of it, being high up in the pure air gave him a strangely comforting echo of what he had been before he fell.

He had been lying when he said he wouldn’t think about Aziraphale when he was away and he had known it when he had said it. Thoughts of the angel were never far from his mind. Crowley was unique as a demon in that he had both an imagination and the capacity for love. Where all the rest of the fallen experienced the removal of the love of God in terms of anger and regret, Crowley felt only love, a crushing love that turned in on itself and manifested as grief. Being Crowley was to experience constant emotional pain. It had been at its worst just after his fall. Since then, he had learned to manage it better, gradually developing a protective carapace of dark humour and irreverence that made life just about tolerable. He recognised this capacity for love as a torment that appeared to have been designed specifically for him, railing at it in his darker moments, wondering why he had been singled out for such particular treatment. The only thing that had ever made it bearable was the knowledge that it allowed him to feel love for the angel, although there were times during their long friendship when he felt that this love too was part of the punishment for his fall. What made this instance of a rift between them especially painful was the fact that the recent closeness they had shared had allowed him to feel, for a while, that a kind of redemption was possible for him through loving and receiving love from Aziraphale. After their argument, he felt like he had fallen again, returned to the hopeless condition of a being who was unforgivable, and it hurt like hell.

He arrived at Zurich and hired himself a car, driving to Interlaken, finding a hotel, checking in and going immediately to his room to sleep when he got there. Everything would be fine, he told himself. He would spend some time in the clear air of the mountains and then plan what he was going to do next. He might leave London and live somewhere else. He could speak several languages and had lived all over the world before he decided to settle in London, largely to be near Aziraphale. Perhaps in time he and the angel could be friends once more, but he was never, ever, he told himself, going to let Aziraphale get under his skin like that again. It is astonishing what our minds tell us when we resolutely refuse to listen to our hearts.

After a night’s sleep, he rose before dawn and drove to the remotest spot he could find, travelling on foot after that to somewhere he could fly from without being seen. He landed in a rocky world of pinnacles and buttresses and looked about him, savouring the chill and the silence. Then he started to climb, embracing the cool rock like a lover. He ascended quickly, hardly pausing to breathe, reaching across to feel the rough surface of the convoluted earth beneath his fingers, wedging his feet into tiny crevices before stretching out once more. He climbed barefoot, his feet toughened by his scales, swinging his weight expertly from hand to foot, his long legs and sinewy form a natural advantage, allowing him to swarm up the most intractable of faces like a spider. Eyes and mind focussed only on the rock and sky above him, he pulled himself up to the light, coming to rest at the top, panting and exhilarated.

He loved the tiny plants that grew tenaciously in any wrinkle and crack in the rock at this altitude; saxifrage, wormwood, rock jasmine. He used to think of them as almost brave, but now he understood that they survived here because that was their nature, clinging on with little foundation, blooming and persisting despite all the adversity of wind and climate. What was his nature that he clung to life, with so little to persist for, what was his purpose in doing so? He knew nothing and was connected with nothing, everything shattered as soon as he got close enough to look at it.

The sun was getting warm, so he lay out on the rock and basked, hearing his heart slow, thinking of nothing. When the sun disappeared, he flew down to a safe place and walked back to his car, returning to the hotel to sleep. He ate nothing while he was doing this, and drank only water.

The next day followed the same pattern. As he exerted himself, his mood changed. The anger he had felt mutated into introspection and melancholy, which soon drifted into the self-loathing that was habitual with him. He soon realised that his anger at Aziraphale was just another version of his ongoing anger at himself. Crowley knew something of psychoanalytic theory, he had met Freud in Vienna and read the works of other practitioners. He understood and yet despised the fact that, fundamentally, he was a child who had been rejected by his Mother and that he continued to suffer because he loved Her still. He hated that pathetic little boy, eternally crying for his mother in a dirty room, unfed and unloved, and had done his best to wall him up inside himself to stifle his cries. Oddly enough, he didn’t make the simple connection between this and the strong protective feelings he had towards children. Every dispossessed child he had ever seen in a war zone, famine or plague cut him to the heart. Throughout his life he had spent as much time as he dared rescuing children, each small distressed face another open wound to him. He did his best, but it was never enough, he could no more give them what they really needed than he could heal himself. He felt endless compassion for them, but spared none at all for his own situation. Sometimes he felt that he was nothing but a shell, an animated shadow going through the motions of life for all eternity.

In the very early morning of the third day, Crowley woke with tears on his face saying the angel’s name and realised that the time had come to think about Aziraphale. He had dreamed of him that night, of the time in Egypt when he had laid his hands on Crowley and offered a simple comfort. It was on the night of the Passover, after Crowley had spent a few increasingly frantic hours smearing lamb’s blood on as many doors as he could get to. His hands were thick with it and he was both exhausted and extremely distressed. Aziraphale had sought him out deep in the night, and had taken his bloody hands in his and washed them, producing a bowl of water and a soft cloth and ministering to them gently, drying each of his fingers carefully on his own robe. He had sat with him then, his arm around his shoulders and a hand rubbing slow circles on his back while Crowley sobbed into his chest. He had said nothing that night but ‘Hush, my dear’ in a low voice, over and over, not attempting to suggest that everything would be alright when they both knew that nothing was right about what was happening, as Azrael passed over them, his boundless black wings blocking out the starlight. He had fallen asleep in the angel’s lap in the end and woken to find that Aziraphale had covered him with his cloak and left him to sleep on. Neither of them had ever mentioned it again.

The dream was important. It was the angel’s words that continually hurt him, but Aziraphale didn’t only communicate with words. Sometimes, when he was speaking, his words said one thing, but his eyes quite another. He could be speaking about them being hereditary enemies while his eyes were saying, ‘I see you and you are dear to me’. It had been like that on the day of the failed apocalypse, he remembered, the angel’s eyes had been so sad and full of regret, particularly when he had seen them for the last time, after their horrible argument, when he had stopped his car and begged (oh yes, he’d begged) for Aziraphale to come away with him, so that he could keep him safe.

He knew that recently, every time he held the angel’s hands in his and looked into his eyes, it had felt like coming home. He had beautiful hands, Crowley often used to watch them when Aziraphale gestured while speaking, his hands fluid and expressive, when he turned the pages of a book or passed him a cup or glass, cradling everything he held with such delicacy. There were so many times over the years when he had been walking alongside Aziraphale and had been forced to put his own hand in his pocket to stop himself from taking the angel’s hand in his. Then there were the times that Aziraphale had touched him, a hand on his shoulder or laid on his arm, always gentle and never intrusive. He had seen those hands working to comfort and to heal, to nurse the sick and dying, seen them covered with blood and gore, yet they were always kind and capable. He had also seen Aziraphale bury his face in those hands and weep for souls taken to fulfil the will of God, the angel distraught at the part he was forced to play, knowing that owning such emotion went against everything he was supposed to be. To the outside world, it was different, when the angel was in public, he carried his hands tightly across his belly, the fingers of one hand tucked into those of the other, protecting himself from the world or fortifying himself to enter into it. This posture was particularly pronounced when he met with Gabriel or any of the other angels. His back would straighten even more than usual and his hands grip each other until the knuckles showed white. There was no welcome there. He thought of the ugliness in Gabriel’s handsome face when he had ordered him in to the hellfire to die and understood why Aziraphale felt the need to protect himself. Aziraphale spoke with his hands, he realised, in a way that was older than language and more honest. They laid bare the subtle truth of how he felt and the essence of what he was.

It was on the fourth day that he received the letter. He was sitting on an outcrop of rock, legs dangling, eyes swooping down from his vantage point to take in the variegated greens of the landscape, a silver twist of river, the rich colours becoming gradually more muted as the view faded into haze at the horizon. He frequently saw ravens and crows flying near the mountains, taking advantage of the thermals there to swoop around, chasing each other, wheeling about the rocky pinnacles in play. He caught sight of another bird approaching where he sat, smaller and more intent in its flight. It was a soft grey colour, a dove. It landed next to him and he noticed that it had a small roll of paper tied to its leg. The bird walked to him and he untied the knot and freed the tiny scroll from above its delicate foot. It seemed to come to and flew off immediately. He unfolded the tightly rolled paper. It was a short note, written in the familiar fluid script of Aziraphale.

_My dear Crowley,_

_I know that you said not to contact you and I will, of course, accept your decision if you no longer wish to continue with our friendship. I fear that what I was saying just before you left led you to believe that I was about to castigate you for what you are. This was not the case. It is important to me that you understand that I do not now, and never have, viewed you as anything other than the bravest and most honourable person that I know. If I have said otherwise, it was because I felt it was my duty to take that attitude. I realise now that I was misguided in my loyalties. I can only say in mitigation that I am very sorry for this, and regret very much having hurt you, as I know I have done. I have in truth appreciated your worth for all the time I have known you, and have always been both proud to know you and too much of a coward to tell you of my feelings. I hope that in time you can bring yourself to forgive me._

_I remain, yours, always, with love._

_A._

He read it over several times, sat and thought for a long while, and then read it again. Aziraphale had apologised before, particularly for what he had said that day at the bandstand. It had not been as comprehensive as this, nor as clear. Crowley was stricken as he read the words over and recognised the pain that lay behind them. He had been hasty and had taken offence where none was meant, assuming that Aziraphale was going to say things that had clearly not been on his mind at all. He had made an assumption based on his own fear of rejection and then reverted back to his habitual way of thinking because it felt safer to do that than to acknowledge that being in love wasn’t always easy. He loved his angel, always had and always would, there was nothing he could do about that, he realised. He needed to go home, and he and Aziraphale would have to work out a way of being together without hurting each other again, if they could. He unfurled his wings and drifted down the mountain, catching the spirals of warm air and using them to sail back to earth.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley returns to London. What happens afterwards. Lots of fluffy stuff and wing things and more singing.

Crowley had taken the first flight he could back to London, retrieved the Bentley from the long-stay car park and driven like an idiot to Soho, back to where his heart lay.

It was mid-evening, the bookshop was dark, all the blinds drawn and the ‘closed’ sign up in the glass of the door. It looked uninhabited, there was no noise from within and no lights showing. He approached the door, fumbling for his key, deciding not to use his power to just fling the door open as that was not the kind of entrance he wanted to make. As he leaned into the door, he noticed the tang of a minor muffling miracle, something he used himself at his flat when he wanted to jack the music up at an, inevitably, ungodly hour of the morning. Good, Aziraphale was in, he had been concerned that his angel might be out and he wanted to see him now, needed to look into his eyes and make sure he was alright.

He pushed open the door, crossed through the barrier that the enchantment made and walked into a wall of gorgeous noise. There was music playing, the beginning of a Bach aria, _Erbarme Dich _from the Matthew Passion. Over the top of this there was the most beautiful voice singing with incredible purity and richness. He had never heard Aziraphale sing before, he never sang, angels were forbidden to use their voices for anything other than praising God. Crowley loved singing along to the songs he liked but the angel had never previously uttered so much as a hum despite loving music as he did. Even _Bohemian Rhapsody_ didn’t provoke him to join in. Aziraphale must have decided that he was no longer bound by that stricture, that had to be progress, Crowley thought. He ventured further into the shop, wanting to see but cautious about disturbing the angel when he clearly thought he was on his own.

The sight that met his eyes in the back shop made him stop and stare. Aziraphale was standing there, barefoot, wearing his tartan pyjama trousers and a white singlet. His snowy gleaming wings were fully extended, quivering with the reverberation of the notes that he was singing and coruscated with light. He had never seen Aziraphale with his arms uncovered. His skin was creamy white and his arms and shoulders shapely and muscular. He was utterly beautiful. As Crowley walked quietly closer, the angel turned slightly and Crowley could see that his eyes were closed, his cheeks tracked and glistening with tears. The violins wept, the astonishing voice soared.

_Scaue hier, Herz und Auge_

_Weint vor dir bitterlich_

_Erbarme dich…_

_See here before you, heart and eyes weep bitterly, have mercy…_

Crowley backed away into the main part of the shop, walking silently and blending in with the darkness there. It was hard to listen to, the beauty and the distress, He didn’t know what to do. Aziraphale would not want to be seen like this but it was heart-breaking. This was his fault, all his fault, he desperately wanted to make it right, but wasn’t sure he knew how to.

Crowley had met Bach, in Leipzig in the late 1720s. He had been an irascible man but beneath that there had been an incredible strength and sweetness. His faith was strong, balanced by a profound sensual sensibility; he liked to eat, drink and love. Crowley, unable to be inside with the congregation to hear the music, had sat in the graveyard of the famous Thomas Church every Sunday, drawn there week after week to hear the sacred cantatas. Sometimes the words of human devotion to the God who had cast him out became too much, but still he stayed, for the music, burning and shaking while he listened, just as he burned and trembled now, listening to his soulmate’s outpouring of grief and sorrow.

He turned, tears stinging his eyes, and was making his way to the door when he stumbled into a huge pile of books left from Aziraphale’s abandoned reorganisation scheme, sitting in a teetering stack on the floor. He tried to steady them but only succeeded in overreaching himself and falling over with the books making a resounding crash, his dark glasses flying off his face and landing somewhere away from him on the floor.

Aziraphale ran into the front shop, switching the light on with a gesture as he came, his wings shaking behind him as each foot hit the floor. He stopped abruptly when he saw Crowley.

‘Crowley! When did you….you should have….Oh Lord, how long have you been here?’

The angel’s voice was thick with emotion. His face crumpled and a furious blush rushed across his cheeks. Crowley was horrified with himself for causing such a reaction. He sprawled on the floor miserably, moving the books that lay around him so that he could get to his feet.

’M sorry, Angel, gnh…didn’t mean to startle you… had to come back…_I missed you Aziraphale_.’

He stood, sorrowfully with his arms stretched out at each side of him in a gesture of hopelessness.

Aziraphale moved forward with a small cry and Crowley suddenly found himself with his arms full of warm body and feathers. He pulled the angel in tightly and felt his own wings manifest with the strength of his reaction to the sudden contact along the length of his body.

‘Oh Crowley, I missed you too, I thought… I thought you weren’t going to come back, that you’d had enough of me, that I had driven you away…’

Fresh tears brimmed over and ran down the angel’s pinkened cheeks and he buried his hot face in Crowley’s neck. Crowley held him close and rubbed his back, feeling his own tears coursing down his face. They trembled in each other’s arms whispering their words of love to each other.

‘...my sweetheart…’

‘…my Angel…’

Aziraphale raised his tear stained face and gazed into the golden eyes of his demon.

‘What did you say?’ he whispered.

Crowley brought his lips to the angel’s and breathed the words softly.

‘It’s what I call you, in my head…I hope you don’t mind…’

‘Mind? How could I possibly…? Say it again, please…’

They spoke their endearments lip to lip, their breaths mingling softly

‘My Angel…’

‘My love…’

The kiss, when it came, was one of exquisite tenderness, expressing all the love and relief they felt at having found each other once more. They held one another gently, their wings curled about each other and stood, foreheads pressed together, in a cave of white and black feathers.

‘Aziraphale, how long have you…?’

‘In my heart, since Rome, but I didn’t want to admit it to myself. In my head, since the war, after that night…the books... I know, that’s a long time to feel something without admitting it, but you know what I am like. And you, my dear?’

‘Egypt, Angel, that time you… you were so kind, you were always kind.’

‘I remember, my love. I realised that day that you were special, that you weren’t as I had been told you would be.’

‘Although sometimes I think that I gave you a place in my heart that day on the wall of Eden…’

‘Really, for that long? Oh, my dear boy. I liked you then, and I never forgot you. You didn’t laugh when I…’

‘…you could have smote me but instead you told me that you had given your sword away. And you sheltered me from the rain. You were so sweet and worried and beautiful.’

‘You were beautiful, that day too, I did notice, I thought you were tempting me, in fact you were tempting me, even if you weren’t trying to. You still are, beautiful, I mean. I should tell you that more often. I love everything about you.’

Aziraphale looked up shyly at Crowley, stroking his fingers through the short hair on the back of his neck. ‘I kept feeling that I had to apologise, I’ve never felt good enough for you, but I have realised that is my problem, not yours, to solve. I will try to do better, meet you on equal terms. You are the best of me, my dear, you make me complete.’

He cupped one hand gently on the side of Crowley’s face and kissed him again. Crowley leaned in to the touch of the angel’s dear hand and smiled.

‘Umm…Angel, you know I’m not very good at this, saying…stuff, _you know_, but you are the best person I know, don’t _ever_ think that you aren’t good enough. You are so much more than those other angels, whatever they might think.’

Crowley pulled the angel more closely to him and pressed a kiss to Aziraphale’s temple, speaking into his hair.

’Satan, this isn’t easy... I love you. I’m not going to tell you every day because that isn’t how I am, but depend upon it, and I’ll try not to let my dark moods come between us again. I got your note, unconventional postal delivery. Sorry I didn’t acknowledge it, I just wanted to get back to you.’

‘I understand,’ said the angel, kindly, ‘what we need now is a drink and to sit and talk properly.’

‘Yes, alcohol, what a very good idea, Angel.’

After one last kiss, they disengaged from their embrace and walked hand in hand into the back room of the shop, their wings going back into their usual plane of existence. Aziraphale lifted the arm of the gramophone from the disc where it was rotating against the label, and switched the machine off. He grabbed a sweater from where it was folded over his armchair and pulled it over his head.

‘The singing, Angel, it was beautiful, when did you start doing that?’ Crowley sat in his usual place and looked across while the angel rummaged for a bottle and glasses.

‘Oh, well,’ Aziraphale’s cheeks flushed with pink again, remembering his drunken declarations of the previous day ‘you know why I didn’t before, of course. It was something I decided I wanted to try after doing some thinking myself. I felt it would be a sign of the new start I am making. And while you were…away, it helped, you know, it soothed me, made me feel like I could get some of the things I had been feeling…out there, as they say. I enjoy it now, it feels liberating. We’re made to sing, you know that. I found that I had rather missed it.’

He poured them both a generous glass of wine and they touched their glasses together, smiling, not needing to say what it was that they were toasting.

They talked long into the night, telling each other everything that had been going through their minds over the last few days. The stillness of the early morning hours encouraged confidences that deepened their understanding of one another. Fears and uncertainties ebbed away. The dawn light found them lying rather awkwardly on the sofa, Crowley sprawled across his angel, head on his shoulder, sleeping peacefully while Aziraphale balanced a book in the crook of his arm and read poetry. He had been reading aloud when he noticed that his demon had nodded off.

_My true-love hath my heart, and I have his,_

_By just exchange one to the other given:_

_I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss,_

_There never was a better bargain driven:_

_My true-love hath my heart, and I have his._

_His heart in me keeps him and me in one,_

_My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides:_

_He loves my heart, for once it was his own,_

_I cherish his because in me it bides:_

_My true-love hath my heart and I have his._

_My heart was wounded with his wounded heart_

_For as from me on him his hurt did light_

_So still methought in me his hurt did smart:_

_Both equal hurt, in this change sought our bliss_

_My true love hath my heart and I have his._

***

Crowley woke and for a moment did not remember where he was. He was delightfully warm and his head was pillowed on something deliciously soft yet firm. He snuggled into it and then felt rather than heard the voice of his angel.

‘Good morning, my dear, I hope I didn’t wake you.’ Crowley tightened his grip and pushed his face into the space under Aziraphale’s chin.

‘Mmp, no, want to stay here for a bit, s’nice’.

He would never have admitted to it if asked, but he loved being touched and held. Becoming closer to Aziraphale had awakened a primal need in him for physical affection, something he had been starved of for thousands of years. Demons did not touch each other and although he had arranged countless temptations of the flesh, he had shied away from any notion of exchanging physical affection with humans. Although he was fond of people, it was not an idea that attracted him at all, it would have felt very odd to him and he disliked the notion of any mortal being becoming emotionally involved with him, knowing only too well the pain of losing a loved one. When it came to humans and encouraging lustful behaviour, he preferred to point them at each other and then let nature take its course, a tactic that was usually pretty successful. He had found that, for the most part, their inclinations tended to run that way naturally, he didn’t usually have to do that much tempting.

It was intoxicating when Aziraphale held him and stroked his hair and all the other soft, nice things he did, he couldn’t get enough of the angel’s kind gestures and loving touches. Fortunately, when it came to Crowley, Aziraphale was pretty demonstrative, which was lucky for him, because he wasn’t very good at asking for affection, being a demon didn’t equip one for that kind of interaction, although it was getting easier, this being loved thing. There was something that he desired though, something that he had thought about often and he wanted it enough to take the risk of asking about it. He took a breath and spoke, braver because in this position, the angel could not see his blushing face.

‘Aziraphale, would you…?’ He hesitated, could he actually do this? He would be mortified if Aziraphale took it amiss or if he had misjudged angelic etiquette on the subject. It had been so long ago and he had few memories of how he had been treated by his brethren before he fell.

‘Yes, my love, what do you need?’

Aziraphale tried to move his head so that he could look at Crowley, but he just wedged it under his chin more firmly. His voice was muffled.

‘Would you sort out my wings for me, please? If that would be okay? If not, it’s fine, I can do most of them for myself, it’s just that…’

‘Oh!…Of course I would, my dear.’ Aziraphale interrupted. He was very moved, Crowley was asking him to do something extremely intimate. Angels had groomed each other’s wings as a matter of course back before the War when everything was simple and loving. Afterwards, such contact was rare, it required trust and everyone was much more reserved once the Fallen had gone, leaving that aching hole and a lingering feeling of both sadness and guilt.

‘Are you sure? Because if it makes you uncomfortable...’ Crowley was the one that sounded uncomfortable

Aziraphale, twisted his head and tried to look Crowley in the eye, while Crowley burrowed deeper into his neck.

‘Look at me, Crowley.’

Crowley huffed and slowly raised his head. He was a delicate pink from throat to hairline. Aziraphale looked at him seriously.

‘I would love to do that for you, thank you for asking me, I am honoured.’

‘Really, Angel?’ Crowley looked wonderingly at Aziraphale, and the blush deepened.

‘Really.’ Aziraphale kissed him on the nose and smiled radiantly. ‘Can I have some tea first? And perhaps you would like some coffee, and maybe some breakfast? I haven’t eaten for days.’

‘That’s not like you, Angel’

‘Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to tell you that, it wasn’t your fault, I just couldn’t, didn’t feel like it…’ now it was Aziraphale’s turn to blush, ‘I really missed you, it’s no good when you aren’t around.’ he murmured.

‘We’ll have to rectify that.’ Crowley disentangled himself from Aziraphale and clambered off the sofa, ‘you get the kettle on and I will go out and find something tempting for breakfast.’

***

It was late in the afternoon when they finally got around to fulfilling Crowley’s request. They had eaten glorious flaky croissants with apricot conserve for breakfast and then felt the need for some fresh air so they had walked to St James’ Park to feed the ducks and reminisce about old times. By the time Aziraphale was sorting out cushions and blankets, twilight was advancing, turning the light inside the bookshop grainy as the sky purpled outside. Aziraphale put on two lamps, creating a cave of light around the centre of the shop beneath the cupola where he had laid out a soft area for Crowley to lie while he groomed his wings. He knew that they hadn’t been looked at for a long time and would therefore have to be extended fully.

‘I have made a soft place for you to lie, my dear, if you would like to…’

Crowley got up from the sofa where he had been sprawled, pretending to read a book while Aziraphale fussed with the soft furnishings. He was feeling extremely awkward as he took off his jacket and shirt and turned to Aziraphale.

‘Angel, I hope you won’t be, erm, put off by my, mmh, I’m not like you, the way I’m made, my back… if you find it…off-putting, I will understand…’

‘I am not going to be judging you for what you look like my dear, and besides, I find you beautiful, please try to believe me. Take those glasses off, lie down and stop worrying.’ His voice grew softer ‘you can trust me my love, I want to make you happy, please let me.’

Crowley nodded, blushing as he lay down on his belly on the pile of soft cushions placed along the floor, crossing his arms in front of his face and resting his cheek on them. He closed his eyes and manifested his wings from the plane of existence where they usually lay, shaking them out to their full extent along the floor of the bookshop.

Crowley’s wings were magnificent, Aziraphale was quite mesmerised by them at first but he tried not to stare for too long to avoid causing Crowley any further embarrassment. He set to work tucking folded blankets under each wing so that they were fully supported.

‘Is that comfortable my dear?’

‘Hmm, yes, s’fine’

Crowley kept his eyes closed and did his best to relax. This was exactly what he had wanted but he was finding it difficult not to feel very exposed, even though he knew Aziraphale was doing all he could to put him at his ease. He had never felt this vulnerable with anyone and even though he trusted his angel, it still wasn’t something that came naturally to him.

Aziraphale had noticed Crowley shiver when he had lifted each wing slightly to place the supports under them and guessed that his wings were very sensitive not having been touched for a very long time. He wanted to make sure that Crowley kept some control over the process so he spoke to reassure him.

‘I am going to start now, please say if anything makes you uncomfortable and I will stop, or we can take a break any time if you want. I am at your service, my love, just let me know what you want.’

Crowley was grateful for this but his nerves were getting the better of him.

‘Just get on with it, Angel.’

Aziraphale knelt by Crowley’s side and began with the large, primary feathers on the right wing, lifting and straightening them to start with, then pinching his fingers together gently along the barbs, drawing them down to realign the barbules where the feathers had become ragged. He worked from the outside in, adjusting the heavy mass of the largest flight feathers so that they were properly aligned and then working along towards the secondaries. At first, each time he touched a feather, he felt a slight start from Crowley in response to the sensation but after a while, he appeared to become used to it. Aziraphale was pleased to feel Crowley relax, he didn’t want to cause distress and the nervous reactions had been slightly worrying.

Crowley was drifting into a delightful haze of pleasure as Aziraphale worked. The first touches had caused jolts of sensation like small electric shocks to course through his back and into his belly and he could not help but jump slightly each time the angel lifted a new feather. After a while, this settled and he began to feel a pleasant sense of wellbeing running through him as Aziraphale handled his wings.

Aziraphale was entirely caught-up in his task and had developed an easy rhythm of working. This, for him, was a perfect moment, something that accorded with his deepest sensibilities in a new and delightful way. To be able to offer service to the being he loved best was a benediction to him, giving him the chance to make amends for everything he might have done in the past that had wronged Crowley. He worked with a profound sense of love and sent that love into every feather that he touched. He simply wanted to make Crowley happy and was glad to have been granted this chance to show his love in this most tangible of ways.

Aziraphale had never looked at Crowley’s wings so closely before, he had only seen them twice, once on the wall of Eden and then again at the Tadfield airbase. The largest flight feathers were a true black but the secondaries, scapulars, tertials and all the coverts were a mesmerising mixture of iridescent dark green, purple, violet and indigo, the colours shifting as the glossy feathers caught the light. The lesser coverts towards the top of each wing were delicately scalloped with paler edges, giving that part of the wing a slightly grey appearance. The most unusual thing, and what Crowley had been referring to when he had suggested that the angel might be put off by him, were the scapular feathers. These started as feathers where the wing neared the centre of Crowley’s back but as they shaded into skin, the feathers gradually became scales, each one the same colour of spilled oil as the feathers. They lay in tessellated rows along his spine, fading into human skin parallel with the feathers at the top and bottom of each wing. Aziraphale had never seen anything so beautiful.

Finishing the larger feathers of the right wing, he moved to the primaries of the left. Allopreening had to be done in balance to maintain comfort for the recipient and to make sure the alignment of both wings was true. Absorbed in his work, he started humming. Crowley lifted his head slightly and opened one eye, speaking thickly,

‘Know this one, Angel, sing it for me.’

_Ich habe genug,_

_Ich habe den Heiland, das Hoffen, der Frommen,_

_Auf meine begeriegen Arme genommen;_

_Ich habe genug…_

As Aziraphale sang the Bach and continued to work, Crowley could feel each note that the angel sounded reverberating from his fingers into his body through his feathers. The deeper notes resonated directly into his bones setting up a sympathetic vibration that was quite unlike anything he had ever experienced. He lay quietly, his very essence comforted by the visceral feelings of love and music pouring into him.

Still singing, Aziraphale moved on to the upperwing covert feathers, lifting and resettling them, pulling his fingers along the vanes, dealing with pin feathers and removing loose semiplumes as he went. He slipped his arms under each wing and did the same to the underwing coverts, leaning in to stroke through them, settling them against the heavier vanes of the great feathers below them. He cupped his hands and ran them along the top of each wing, pressing lightly, easing tension in the muscles and tendons. Crowley sighed and then released a succession of little sounds with each instance of pressure. He was in a state of bliss, feeling a warmth in which his true form bathed, ecstatic.

Aziraphale stopped singing for a moment.

‘Sweetheart, I am going to sit over you to reach your back, I won’t make you bear my weight.’

Crowley nodded, too far beyond words to speak. Aziraphale straddled him at his hips, looking down at the slender form beneath him. His skin was milk-white with a scattering of freckles across the shoulders. Beneath the spread wings, his body was beautiful, was perfect, skin gleaming in the lamplight. Aziraphale admired the handsome, muscular shoulders, the straight spine and the supple curve of his waist where it met the swell of his lower back and buttocks. Humming through the rest of the last aria of the cantata, he leaned forward and placed his hands on Crowley’s shoulders, massaging the muscles gently with his thumbs, easing out the last of the tension held there. He worked down Crowley’s back with the palms of his hands, winging out his fingers over the shoulder blades, then stroking gently between the wings with the tips of his fingers, feeling the subtle change in texture from skin to scales under his finger pads. He lingered here, rubbing gently at the swell of muscle on each side of the spine until he felt it relax under his touch. Aziraphale then took a breath, spread out his fingers and slid his hands under the tertial feathers of Crowley’s wings to take the joint of each wing in his hand, carefully massaging around it, pushing the tips of his fingers into the muscle with a slow firmness. Crowley arched his back, lifting his head and giving a moan of pleasure as he felt the gentle fingers touching him in this most sensitive of areas. His wings shuddered and shook. Aziraphale continued to stroke the strong back muscles under the wings, and leaned forward, placing small kisses on the hazy patch of scales in the centre of his back.

‘You are…so…beautiful. How could you think I wouldn’t love you like this? I love you with all my heart my dear, sweet Crowley’

Crowley was quite overwhelmed, bathed in love, it filled him up with a liquid light, flowing into him, uncoiling the pain he carried and healing hurts so old that he had forgotten he bore them. ‘Love…you…Aziraphale,’ he sighed.

Aziraphale smoothed his hands out from under Crowley’s wings at last and lay his cheek against the patch of scales between them for a long moment, feeling cool skin with the blush of warm flesh beneath it and inhaling Crowley’s characteristic scent, redolent of ripe fruits, spiced rum, leather and sandalwood.

‘All done my love, you rest for a while and I shall go and find us something to drink and eat.’

Aziraphale stood and looked down at Crowley. He was stunningly lovely, his hair a flame, wings glinting in the lamplight. He moved away quietly and left him to doze and recover.

Crowley felt utterly relaxed, he couldn’t remember when he had felt this good, he smiled to himself, he was happy, he hadn’t thought he would ever be happy again. He looked inside himself, and knew his nature, and his nature was to love and that was enough. He slipped into sleep with a contented sigh.

***

Sometime later, having given Crowley time to sleep, Aziraphale returned with a bottle and two glasses and then a plate of interesting things to eat that included cheeses and figs, grapes and small, crunchy biscuits with poppy seeds on the top, a favourite of Crowley’s.

Crowley stirred.

‘Wstfgl?’

‘Some things to eat, my dear, and wine, if you would be interested.’

Crowley sat up, stretched and rubbed his eyes, looking round as if remembering where he was. Then he did remember, and he grinned at Aziraphale, amber eyes shining.

‘That was…_nice_ Angel.’

He stood up and shook his wings briskly, the susurration filling the bookshop.

‘Like Maia’s son he stood, and shook his plumes’ said Aziraphale, grinning.

‘That Milton, definitely had a _thing_ about wings, didn’t he? Crowley folded his and they faded away, as did the patch of scales on his back, sent to their resting place in another dimension. He strolled to the back shop, found his shirt and jacket and returned to his habitual appearance. Aziraphale joined him there, passing him a glass of wine.

‘Before we settle down, Angel, there’s a song I’d like to sing to you, since we seem to be doing the singing thing now, something that I used to listen to, it used to remind me, when we were, you know, not together.’

He took the angel’s hands in his and they sat on the familiar sofa, facing each other. Crowley leaned in and kissed Aziraphale softly.

‘I can’t tell you what that meant to me, so I’m not going to try, I know you understand.’ Then, looking into Aziraphale’s limpid eyes, he started to sing:

_Sometimes I feel so happy,_

_Sometimes I feel so sad,_

_Sometimes I feel so happy_

_But mostly you just make me mad…_

Aziraphale smiled, then blushed, then smiled again as Crowley sang, his voice raw and full of emotion.

After this, it became something that they did together, singing and listening to each other sing. It was another form of communication, a way of expressing their feelings, a way of exploring this new life that they found themselves in, together at last. Sometimes they sang in their human shape holding hands or with their arms about each other. Sometimes they sang while they flew above the earth, looking down on the planet from the stratosphere. Sometimes they sang as balls of light, orbiting one another in space, swooping around the stars that Crowley had set into the sky or flying to the end of creation to watch the stately expansion of the universe. Sometimes they chased one another, dodging electrons at the heart of a single atom.

Quite often, they sang in the Bentley, Crowley took Freddie’s vocals, and Aziraphale filled in the rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem here is by Sir Philip Sidney, a rather dashing young man who had lovers of both sexes. This one must have been written to one of his male lovers. I feel it is very apt for our celestial duo.
> 
> The Bach is cantata BWV 82 Ich habe genug, 'I have enough'  
The song Crowley sings is Pale Blue Eyes by the Velvet Underground, bebop, obviously


End file.
